Ignobles

Chapter 4

Out of all the pubs and bars that were scattered around the little town of Benson, The Old Dollar was the smallest. And the youngest, ironically enough. It stood in a quiet street, tucked away in the dead-end of the third shortest road in the town. Other than the dust that blew in, visitors of chaste nature were rare.

The drinks were cheaper than anywhere else, as were the women. And cheap prices bring cheap men. Benson's sheriff was no different. He was no Wisefield. 

The Old Dollar wasn't old. But it had the oldest, darkest set of wooden barn doors at its entrance which stood beneath a wood sign that read in poorly written capital letters: THE OLD DOLLAR.

The next man to enter walked through the doors silently, hood drawn over his face, removing black gloves from each hand. The bartender on the opposite side of the room didn't need to look twice before abandoning the group of three men who sat at the bar. The man took a seat at the table nearest to the door, his hood still shrouding the upper part of his face as the bartender approached. He walked up to the table, cloth over his shoulder, his silver mustache preened to unsuitable neatness. He stood by the table, staring at the man's hood for a long few seconds.

"El Tomador?" The bartender asked.

The man in the hood nodded, "Still clueless, old man?"

The bartender frowned, "What in-"

"Oi! Bartender!" One of the three men who sat before the bar shouted.

Tomador rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together, smiling at him from beneath his hood. The bartender ignored him, rushing back behind his bar to tend to the drunk men. The rest of the place was empty. Tomador counted seven tables in total. Ten chairs at the bar. Three of which contained those bumbling idiots. Tomador watched them, resting his chin on his knuckles.

A frown formed beneath the shadow of his hood, No. Only two idiots.

The bartender poured them another round before rushing back to his table, "What d'ya want Tomador?"

El Tomador just stared across the room at the three men, "Answers, Mac."

The bartender raised his eyebrows, "For what?"

Tomador pulled out a roll of paper from the pocket of his black coat, slapping it on the table with a hollow thud. He unfurled it and slid it across the table to the bartender, who watched it as if it were his death warrant.

"I've never seen him Tomador, I swear to God, I've-"

"Don't lie before God, Mac," Tomador said, leaning back in his chair, hood still covering his eyes, "I heard hell is not a good place."

Mac brushed his mustache down as he stared at the paper. The picture of the man on it stared back. The thick black rash that cluttered his top lip made Tomador's stomach curdle.

When he looked back up at the bartender, he could see the man begin to crack. So he waited a moment more. All in the technique, drawing out information. Like coaxing a rabbit out of its hole. Too much force, and it'll never come out.

"When did you see him last, Mac?"

The bartender's eyes darted up to his, "I've never seen this man, I promise-"

Tomador's hand slipped inside his coat, pulling out the Colt that hung in the holster at his hip, keeping it just above the table and out of sight of the three men at the bar. Of course, you can always put a stick of dynamite down the rabbit's burrow, too.

His hands sprung up, his eyes wide behind his glasses, "No! I promise I have never seen this man!"

Tomador's eyes flickered to the men at the bar, two of whom were looking over their shoulders.